


Endurance

by Alethia



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Lancelot is a Badass, M/M, Sparring, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-27
Updated: 2004-07-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why Arthur, what brings you out, fondling your sword even before the light has crested the hills?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endurance

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by guede_mazaka's amazing [Tempering](http://guede-mazaka.livejournal.com/185869.html). I also have much love for sword fights. Originally posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/84973.html).

Restlessness brought him out so early, feeling the bite of the morning in the back of his throat, fort and town heavy and still, all the aching solitude this land offered. He walked, quiet and quick, though for no real purpose as all sane men lay warmed by thick blankets of wool and flesh. 

Yet he walked, uncaring, beyond the walls of the fort, gone too long since fighting and feeling it in the longed for strain of muscles, the exhilarating burn of battle, and the purgation of that ever-present hostility. 

He idly kicked at the earth as he approached what the Romans called the campus, finding even that failed to satisfy him. Lancelot was a weapon, his only purpose to kill, and he had no one on whom to exercise that wondrous purpose. 

The greatest sin was a tool that wasn’t well-used.

He sighed and surveyed another of Rome’s great necessities, but which to Lancelot just looked like a flat pit. Perhaps it was the fancy manner in which the area was cleared and small rock thrown about, Lancelot did not know or care. Like everything, the Romans here loved their order, couldn’t be bothered to appreciate anything that wasn’t brought under its strict, dispassionate military control.

Dull was an excellent way of describing it. And how it grated this day, even more as the day had yet to begin.

He kicked the earth again, tragic dearth of appeasement, and walked on. Was brought up short by the soft sounds of exertion that no soldier in this army could be unfamiliar with. Sight merging with sound, senses agreeing, and still relating wholly unbelievable information. 

He squinted a bit in the dim light, the sun not yet showing her face, and tensed instinctively, surprise making his heart start, traitorous breathing increase in sympathy. 

For there was his commander, sweating his frustration in the early morn, training. Alone.

Lancelot couldn’t remember another instance where he’d seen Arthur thus, outside of battle—focused movements, swinging his blade and moving lightly, swift, the deadly mimicry of a dance. Full armor and Lancelot idly thought of the weight of it, how it held you down, as though submerged in water, made your responses just a shade slower, enough to mean a quick death, defeat.

Well did he know the effort required to adjust to that weight, early weeks here tested in fire, still so young, urgency hastening learning. And through it all Arthur had shown no hint of strain, no indication of uncertainty, though Lancelot knew he must have been struggling the same as they.

Only the noble face of a leader he showed, lacking the slightest hint of hardship. It had made the man hard to bear. And impossible to ignore. 

Looking upon him now—smooth, effortless movements cutting through the mist, sweat so prominent and moves so easy—Lancelot wondered how often he’d come here, obviously desiring solitude in his practice, and getting it, but for those patrolling the wall.

Glanced up to see a soldier had paused, watching in silent communion with Lancelot, starting when he knew he’d been caught. Hurried on. 

That was the kind of man Arthur was, even now, one who captured the attention and imagination, the one lit flare in this oppressively verdant place, offering hope even to the most cynical of his Roman brethren.

The forced casualness of Arthur’s pose assured Lancelot that Arthur knew he was there and watching. The fact that he did not stop said even more and Lancelot couldn’t help but grin wryly at the stubbornness of their leader.

“Why Arthur, what brings you out, fondling your sword even before the light has crested the hills?” he asked, walking closer and grinning again as the other man was forced to stop and turn, converse with Lancelot. Politeness dictated and Arthur did so like to follow the rules.

“The same as you, I expect,” he said, slight inclination of his head a morning greeting, not wholly unexpected given their friendly terms. Lancelot once again thanked his foresight in pushing himself into the other man’s space, though the process was more akin to a tree reaching for the heavens, starved for light. 

“It is too quiet,” he agreed, seeking out the edges of that forest, distrust flavoring his gaze.

“Indeed.” Left it at that and an awkward pause settled between them, as if Arthur knew not what to say. Lancelot enjoyed watching as Arthur seemed to search within himself for some conversation. Found naught.

“I did not know you trained at this time. Alone.” Accusation in his tone, yes, but knowing humor there as well.

“I prefer it.”

“Yes, our company must be so tiresome for you.” Arthur cast him a sly look, then, judging his seriousness and Lancelot was amused to watch a devilish smile take hold of him, relaxing his features.

“With knights like you, my dear Lancelot, the savage hoards look almost inviting.” 

It warmed his insides in this perpetually frigid air to know that the other man felt comfortable insulting him, treating him as a brother and not an enemy. Ah, the sacrifices he made.

This was better than the wary silence with which Arthur had first regarded Lancelot’s more…voluble opinions.

“That would be unsurprising, half-breed that you are.” He saw Arthur’s eyes darken slightly, cold edge of metal shot through his stance, letting Lancelot know he’d scored a hit. Had heard enough from sneering Romans, afraid of this man’s presence, though of what they could not name. Heard enough to guess some of the comments Arthur had had to endure.

Made him wonder about Rome, about all the lofty ideals Arthur said it espoused. Couldn’t see any of that here, not that Arthur would hear a word of it.

“Come, tell me, why do you not wait to train with your knights, rather than directing our activities? Does your idea of equality not extend to that, as well? Or is it that you fear to be bested by those you command?”

Arthur again let a forced smile again play about his lips, as if subjected to some terrible joke but obliged to laugh. It fixed Lancelot’s gaze, all too effective at distracting his attention. “You would be mistaken, of course.”

“Really?” Said with practiced disinterest, catching the spark that lit those eyes, liking the portent. “So spar with me, in the tradition of your armatura.”

Arthur looked…like it was a request not unexpected, yet he resisted. “I doubt the wisdom of such a match,” was all he said and Lancelot let his eyes sweep over Arthur’s form, obviously measuring, and smiled. 

“I would not.”

A scoff—unusual and rare, bestowed only upon those close to Arthur, if anyone could truly _be_ close to him. Arthur shook his head. “I do not think _you_ are one to deliberate over the wisdom of _any_ action.” 

“To great result. You think too much. Get rid of your armor, I want to best you fairly.”

To Lancelot’s surprise Arthur did as he was told—a shock in itself—and he was granted the privilege of watching Arthur strip off his cuirass and doublet, sadly stopping at tunic and Lancelot briefly indulged in the vision of him going further.

But, no, there was no place for that now and besides, he was looking forward to crossing blades with the legendary Arthur Castus. Had seen enough in battle to know he was good, Lancelot anxious to try out his skill against the other man. 

Besides, he could always seduce Arthur later. Perhaps after their midday meal when they had a rest.

Belt, dagger, and greaves joined the growing pile and Lancelot grinned, removing his belt as well. Swords alone would suffice, though he did not regret that he had concealed another dagger inside his boot before he left. Arthur need not know about that.

Sword again in hand, Arthur rotated his wrist, swinging it ‘round and Lancelot briefly appreciated the grace of the movement before he attacked, the satisfying clang of metal on metal as Arthur blocked his stroke, the shock snaking up an arm that hadn’t been used thus in so very long.

“Oh, how I have longed for this,” Lancelot said, stepping back as Arthur shunted his sword to the side, maintaining his grip while still managing to smirk at the other man.

“And I never thought you were one to court defeat.” Arthur jabbed forward, making Lancelot sidestep to avoid the blade, only slightly concerned that Arthur seemed to be putting his full weight behind these thrusts. It was no matter; Lancelot would not be caught unprepared.

He laughed at the other man, shaking his head, taking the offense once again, cutting diagonally across the body and making Arthur dodge and block awkwardly. “For one so resistant, you’ve certainly gotten into the spirit of the fight.”

“You perpetually need a lesson. In this case, I find myself happy to oblige.” Arthur skillfully reengaged his cut, moving from a defensive stance to an offensive one in a smooth instant and Lancelot suddenly found his momentum moving him one way and Arthur’s taking full advantage.

Lancelot let himself fall forward into a roll and spring back up, natural wiriness useful here. He was mindless of the dirt now coating him, the rock that pricked at his skin, waking it up after its slumber, solely aware of his own flash of pride at the grudging nod Arthur gave the move.

“Sarmatians’ reputation was not lightly given,” he said haughtily. 

“I know it.” They tangled again, coming closer, bodies reeling each other in, unshakeable force always between them, so much larger than themselves. So dangerous here. 

Arthur sliced his father’s blade downwards again, aiming for his right side and Lancelot deflected easily, putting more flare into the move than was strictly necessary but he had the irrepressible urge to flaunt himself here. What with the ability and the sole attention of Arthur…he was not one to lose such an opportunity.

He turned as Arthur predictably went for the left, bringing his sword over his shoulder and shifting his weight to his right leg, kicking out and striking squarely in the chest, liking how his muscles bunched and flexed, stretched under the use. This felt good, sweat springing up all over him, even in the cool dampness of the early hour. He could understand what lured Arthur here, silky air and seductive quiet intoxicating, even for Britain.

Quickly brought his sword back ‘round and grinned as Arthur’s free hand involuntarily clutched at injury, face flashing surprised determination.

“What’s the matter, Arthur? Finding it to be a bit more of a challenge than you anticipated? I should have put a wager on this match. With what you’re paid I could have doubled my holdings easily.”

Arthur stretched a bit and smiled, for once seeming like he was enjoying himself. “Do think that. Hubris is my fault of choice in an opponent.”

Lancelot laughed, once, quickly cut short by another of Arthur’s attacks, this time moving in to strike before stepping back. Learned the danger of close engagement with him, then. Pity. Lancelot could have had some fun there.

He held his sword at the ready, pointed up from his waist at Arthur’s face, bringing it forward to block Arthur’s next—predictable—cut.

Got a shock as he changed height and angle at the last instant, achieving an impressive undercut, Lancelot only saved a nasty gash to the stomach by reflexes honed in battle for five interminable years. 

And neither did Arthur like to lose opportunities, following with a down cut and a second swipe, up and high, tunic pulled tight across muscle and bone, molding to skin flushed with effort.

Lancelot blocked both, again having to twist and absorb both heavy blows with his own blade, impact jarring his arm, no chance to move into the offensive. Danced back to give himself some space, not liking that smirk on Arthur’s face one bit.

And he was decrying _Lancelot’s_ arrogance?

Annoyance gave him strength, moving back in with a false cut, only to shift into a straight thrust, catching Arthur off guard, forcing him to step to his left. He miscalculated, blow slicing into his right forearm, calling forth the red bloom of life, seeping through flesh and wool, dark stain on a darker tunic.

Arthur hissed and pulled back, hand again covering his wound, and Lancelot paused, brow furrowed. His intent had been friendly, competitive, but not to cause harm. The red swell reminding him too greatly of all that had been sacrificed to this invisibly scarred land.

“Arthur—”

“It’s fine.” Said too quickly, like trying to convince himself of the same. Well did he know that stubborn countenance and Lancelot rolled his eyes at its old familiarity.

“You should concede now before anymore blood is spilled between friends.”

“No. We should continue on.” Didn’t give Lancelot a chance to protest as he pressed his advantage, flurry of cuts making Lancelot fall ever back, unprepared for the onslaught.

Knew his mistake as he felt Arthur’s sword engage his at his weakest hold, knew before it happened he would lose it. Warrior instinct—born in him and bred through years of bloodlust— accepted that fact, no great surprise when it happened. He used Arthur’s distraction to brace his weight on his left leg, kicking out with his right to take Arthur’s feet out from under him.

Did not expect the hand that took hold of his wrist, pulling him down, and in his fall he narrowly missed a skewering by that magnificent blade.

“Arthur,” hissed as they fell, grappled, both men grasping at single sword, Lancelot well aware that Arthur’s weight outclassed him. Tried anyway, rolling over and over, not even able to appreciate the poetry of rolling in the dirt with such an enticing man.

He knew he had lost the struggle for sword when Arthur threw himself firmly on top of Lancelot’s chest, hand squeezing Lancelot’s wrist until forced to let go. Found a grip and pulled the sword back to press at vulnerable throat, but Arthur never should have let his legs stay free.

Again Lancelot used Arthur’s distraction to search out the concealed dagger, bring it to Arthur’s throat in a heady instant, just as Arthur’s blade reached his own.

Both stayed that way, heavy breaths bringing in the scent of the other, dirt, and the life that sighed all around them. Each of them stayed by cold blade to throat. They lay there for minutes, hours, looking at each other without uttering a word.

“It appears as if we’ve reached a stalemate,” Lancelot said easily, smirking at Arthur’s slow realization of just what he’d done. Damn innocent fool.

“You cheated.” Harsh accusation in that tone and Lancelot just rolled his eyes at Arthur’s astute observation, surprised he could muster the strength for so much indignation.

“Strange how I don’t remember agreeing to any rules,” he baited with sharp grin, shifting under Arthur’s weight suggestively.

Arthur—Arthur looked like he’d been presented with an argument too stupid to _comprehend_ and Lancelot laughed at him then, for that unrealistic notion of honor in battle that so guided his thoughts.

Arthur’s eyes darkened, storms gathering in a placid sea, and he pulled his sword away from Lancelot’s flesh, shaking his head. “You would have cheated had the rules been written in stone by the hand of God Himself.”

Lancelot laughed again and nodded, feeling too-long curls sticking to his sweat-drenched face. “Of course.”

Let grin drop away, used Arthur’s new relaxation and the lack of sword at his throat to roll the man over, straddle his hips and pin him to the ground with a fierce glare and the bite of metal.

“Lancelot!” Surprised exclamation and careful stillness, aware and wary of the blade so close to something so precious.

“Arthur,” he murmured, leaning close, breath mingling with the other man’s, watching eyes widen in comprehension. Lancelot ground down just a little, reinforcing it with the point of a blade.

“Lancelot, people are watching.” Hissed out as a warning, as if he should care if the whole of the fort decided to come out and cheer them on. Hell, Tristan could probably offer some useful tips in regards to such a position.

He smirked at the thought.

“Yes, the sun did finally make her appearance, though through the watery grave of this air. I did not realize it was so late,” he said conversationally, looking up at that depressing sky.

Looked back down when Arthur shifted, causing Lancelot to nudge the hardness beneath him. Watched, fascinated, as Arthur tried to stifle his shudder, act as though he did not want it.

He pressed his blade delicately, just the tiniest cut into vulnerable skin, watching a solitary bead of red well, what little color existed in this drab land. Felt the pulse of hard flesh beneath his arse and leaned in close again, pulling knife away only to lick at that small reminder, familiar tang of blood and sweat and metal and Britain all mixing their tantalizing shadow on his tongue.

Pulled back at Arthur’s shudder, _buck up_.

“Very well. As you wish, my lord.” Swiftly stood and gathered his sword, belt, unsurprised that Arthur did not move. “If you wish to continue this…seek me out.”

He left, uncomfortable hardness a welcome reminder, dagger glinting a wicked grin in the pale morning light.

***

Lancelot smirked into the darkness, the feel of another prickling along his skin. “What did Tristan say when you asked him to bind your wound?” Only one man would dare trespass on him here, without announcement or invitation.

Though, he did invite Arthur, didn’t he?

A careful pause and he could feel eyes upon him, measuring in the low light that cast shadows across most of the room. “Tristan rarely says much.”

“And what he does is worth remembering. I do remember that lesson,” he said lightly, sitting up from his relaxed sprawl on the bed and watching Arthur’s body equivocate.

“And now the teacher becomes the student. Are we conflicted, Arthur?” Purposefully baiting again, a flare of emotion—any emotion—better than uncertainty here.

“I cannot help but wonder at your motives; why were you there this morning?”

Lancelot shrugged, knowing the elegance of the motion, having been told as much. “Where else would I be, Arthur, but at your side?”

Barely finished before Arthur was on him, mouth hungry, hands flowing over wool and flesh, seeking skin underneath without bashfulness or patience. More than he expected and Lancelot opened his mouth and sucked in a breath, giving better access to tongue and teeth, a new battle between them.

Laughed into Arthur’s mouth and it made the other man pull away, frown troubling his features. “And what is so amusing?” he asked archly, settling on top of Lancelot instinctively. 

“You. I thought it would take at least three days for you to work up your nerve.” A flare of indignation appeared in those eyes, but Lancelot did not let it swell to a smoldering flame, leaned forward to capture mobile lips with his own, bracing his hand to the side and twisting them into a roll.

Stopped abruptly when Arthur balked, pulling back. “I think you’ve been on top far too much today as it is.” Used his leverage to shove Lancelot on his back, stretching out over him, heat pressing him down, blanketing him as effectively as any wool.

Arthur sniffed at Lancelot’s throat and bit, laughing darkly when he arched up into it. “And now you shall have a matching mark, though I dare say yours was more fun in the making.”

Barely touched and already breathless, Lancelot would be ashamed of his lack of prowess if Arthur weren’t doing his damnedest to distract him. “Irk you, did that?” Said it like he knew the answer; he did. Arthur did not like marks of ownership, especially ones made in violence.

For all that he was inscrutable, Lancelot knew him well.

“Everyone who saw me remarked upon it. I’ll have to thank you for that later.” Bruising kiss just below his collar, fingers pushing up fabric and sliding along skin, Lancelot trapped beneath him, unable to move.

“Or you could thank me now.” Firm thrust _up_ , despite the weight atop him, and Arthur growled, finding lacings on trousers and tugging, mouth moving along neck, sampling as Lancelot’s breath hitched ever higher.

“And reward such scandalous behavior?”

Lancelot snorted through the haze in his mind, looking into Arthur’s eyes meaningfully. “If that is the stick by which you measure scandal, it is no wonder people call you naïve.”

“I wonder, does this mouth ever stop moving?” Arthur asked, running a finger across lips, getting nipped for the effort.

“Going to try to find out?”

“It might be worth the price of discovery.”

Lancelot laughed, feeling it echoed in the chest above him, Arthur’s amusement coloring the air. “I’m sure many a man would envy you that price.” 

“Indeed.” Spoke no more, pulling off tunic and tugging trousers out of the way, helping Lancelot to do the same, too much effort required to go further, unappealing when faced with the siren call of hard slickness rubbing together, hands grasping at slippery shoulders, mouths fused in a sloppy tangle.

Breathing labored, Lancelot shifted up, getting legs ‘round Arthur’s hips and rocking into the heat above him, around him, reaching down inside of him. Reveled in the scent of him, the feel of hard chest pressed to his own, equal in all things.

Lancelot let his nails scrape down Arthur’s back, watching as the flash of pain hit, muting into desire, making thrusts harder, faster, that much sweeter. He broke away and grinned, gripping hips with his legs and _pulling_ , refusing to give Arthur any respite. Arthur dropped his head to suck at Lancelot’s exposed neck, heavy trails of pain feathering down his spine, pooling in pleasure, burning through him that much hotter.

A harsh bite to his shoulder and twist _down_ and the shock of it had Lancelot bucking, thrusting, wild and uncontrolled, tearing a gasp and moan from Arthur as warmth pooled between them, burning out all feeling in fingers and toes, bliss wrapping them in its weightless embrace.

Lancelot shifted from under Arthur, using lassitude to urge him onto his back while he was still unaware, reversing their positions with some maneuvering, lightly touching bronze skin wherever Lancelot could reach.

Only roused from his explorations by Arthur’s voice, gone gravelly with passion, calling forth no small amount of pride within Lancelot. “I see you end up on top again.” Mild, amused but not irritated, and Lancelot lifted his head from Arthur’s chest and grinned.

“Always.”

“I suppose it is of no matter that your victory was ill-gotten.” Not even a hint of reproach and Arthur? A jest?

“Victory is victory. You would do well not to let your guard down. Someone could take advantage.” Said in innocence, sucking a pink nipple into his mouth and grinning again.

A chuckle beneath him and Lancelot liked the way he shook with it, the way he could feel Arthur’s heart and breath, the very essence of the man, captured and bleeding his life into Lancelot. Fed off the heat and hope and didn’t repent.

“I suppose with you by my side I won’t have to worry for that.”

Lancelot inclined his head regally, giving a leader his proper deference, gaining a laugh in return. They lapsed into quiet, Lancelot’s thoughts wandering back to their spar, a question still itching under his skin.

“You train alone, then. Too much time spent with us as it is.”

Arthur stiffened underneath him and cupped a hand behind Lancelot’s neck, holding him in place. “Never. Never that. I train alone to assure that I never put my knights in a position to feel they are less than what they are. My usefulness lies more in direction than engagement.”

Lancelot nodded. “You are a fool.”

Wry smile and Arthur slid hand into hair, stroking softly. “Perhaps.”

Lancelot leaned back down, resting chin against chest, allowing himself be petted, refusing to admit he desired it. And he let himself think that maybe, for a little while, he could endure.

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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